


He Remembers

by turningoverwill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season 7 compliant, jon snow may know nothing but he does remember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 15:43:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17728073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turningoverwill/pseuds/turningoverwill
Summary: Jon Snow remembers falling in love, one memory at a time.Set during season 7.





	He Remembers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Like with 'A Morning Interlude', I posted this on tumblr a few weeks ago. After correcting typos and altering a few things, I'm posting it here. All mistakes are my own, as is the mood board. I hope you enjoy it! :)

 

 

He cannot recall meeting another lady like her. He cannot recall meeting another  _ person _ like her. He has wanted to tell her on numerous occasions, too many to count, but he remembers her reaction in the Dragon Pit. The quiet smile traced on her lips, the gentle hope shining in her eyes. No, she is not like everyone else. She is the very best of them, in all that she does, and he swears that he will make sure she will never forget that, and that she will never question his belief in her. 

 

He remembers that first day, walking into the Throne Room at Dragonstone, unsure of what to expect. The room vast and cavernous, a seemingly small slip of a woman seated on the stone chair; the shadows half covering her face not enough to swallow her, her presence seemingly filling the room, the cast of the stone unable to disguise her beauty as her impressive titles are announced to her invited guests. 

 

He remembers the pleasantries, his surprise at her acceptance of what her father was, before his growing impatience turned into short words. He remembers wishing he had his furs over his shoulders, cursing himself for not remembering to put them on again after they had rowed to shore. He had grown used to the heavy cloak, it provided a weighted confidence he had still not become accustomed to; it helped him play the part of king. He remembers Daenerys standing when she had grown tired of his supposed insolence, her deliberate steps and the self belief punctuating her words to him.  _ Faith. Not in any god, not in myths and legends. In myself. Daenerys Targaryen.  _ He remembers the determination in her eyes. 

 

He remembers brooding on that cliff top, feeling at a loss and as though he had already failed his people. He remembers the gentle slaps of wind on his face as he pondered Tyrion’s words. He remembers his trepidation at seeking Daenerys out as she watched her children from afar. He remembers the awe he felt in his bones at the dragons in the distance; the amazement growing at the realisation she was responsible for bringing them into the world. He remembers his restrained joy at her permission to mine the dragon glass, the whisper of hope in his mind that maybe, just maybe, she did not think him a complete mad fool. He remembers the curl of warmth behind his ribs at her acknowledgment of his loss, the faces of his brothers as he had last seen them flashing in his mind.  _ You had better get to work Jon Snow.  _

 

He remembers the evenings spent under candle light in a shared solar, a rare occurrence, the labour of mining dragonglass causing a weary exhaustion to steadily seep into his bones. He sees her sat across the room from him, partaking in a game of cyvasse, or in light discussion with Tyrion and Missandei. He remembers thinking how the licks of the small flames illuminated her youth and reminded him of his own, the flicker of girlish joy crossing her face at her Hand’s teasing tales. He remembers how it made him feel lighter, and how he would bask in it for eternity if she were to ever look at him in the same way.

 

He remembers his deflation at her pledge to fight for him if he bent the knee. He remembers feeling startled as she spoke his words to Mance back to him. His respect for this lady, _this Queen_ , growing the more time he spent in her presence. He also remembers the way the firelight danced across her face, adding a softness that had been absent in the harsh shadows of the Throne Room, the way the silver of her hair caught the ember glow, the way he longed to run his hands through it _._ _He knows he could stare forever_. He remembers his shock on the beach at her request for council; the intensity with which she listened, at being softly stunned when she seemed to heed his advice. 

 

He remembers the feeling of his growing admiration for the Queen. Hearing the words of Missandei and her reasons for following her, the complete conviction in her leader who had broken herself out of bondage, before breaking the chains of others. He recalls the soft, secretive smiles she had shared with her advisor, the way her eyes lit up when something she is told brings her joy. Their belief in her unshakable, and Jon remembers the seeds of his esteem towards Daenerys beginning to bloom ever larger. 

 

He remembers the awe vibrating through his being at seeing her atop her dragon, flying through the sky, looking majestic before landing on the bluff he was occupying. He is still not entirely sure what possessed him to hold out his hand to Drogon, allowing him to smell his scent before petting his burning snout. Stupidity or bravery, he is not sure, but something in him recognised Drogon and forced him to reach out. He remembers the bitter knife of jealousy at seeing Daenerys welcoming and embracing Ser Jorah, reminding him rudely of his status and  _ there’s no time for that _ . He remembers the mornings he awoke hard and wanting, the vividness and viscosity of her in his dreams chasing him into daylight. He also remembers Davos’s knowing looks and  _ I’ve noticed you staring at her good heart. _

 

He remembers his jubilation at the news of Bran and Arya in Winterfell being short lived and overshadowed by the news of the Night King. He remembers wanting to bask in the status of his siblings, but instead finding the ever present sorrow taking over at the realisation of what he must do. He remembers the pleading in Davos’s eyes, the acceptance in Tyrion’s. He remembers the catch of Daenerys’s voice as she reminds him he needs her permission, him snuffing out the spark of hope in his chest before he asserts he needs no permission; he is  _ a King _ . 

 

He remembers their goodbye on the beach; his trying for nonchalance and the avoidance of her eyes, the screaming of his heart at the practiced indifference. He remembers pushing away from the shore, the tangle of his thoughts as he forced his gaze forward.  _ I cannot look back now, I may never want to leave.  _ He remembers telling himself the Queen was only remembering her courtesies, that she could never think of  _ him _ in that way.  _ He remembers the biting of his nails on his palms through his gloves, the only way to keep himself from reaching for her. _

 

He remembers the journey to Eastwatch, the endless running of his mind on what ifs and what could have beens _. Too late for that, you’re just torturing yourself now lad.  _ He remembers the futile attempts at trying to push Daenerys from his consciousness; to try and focus on their purpose for coming North. He remembers trying to shove away his unease at returning to The Wall, at trying to suppress the constant pricking of his skin at the mere idea of having to go beyond The Wall once more. He mostly remembers trying to force down the inclination that he misses Daenerys, with her hard confidence and the contradictory softness she tries to hide. The secret smiles, the empathy in her gaze; the understanding of their burden.  _ You don’t even have the right to miss her _ came the disdainful reply. 

 

He remembers the hopelessness that overcame him in the middle of that lake, the acceptance that he was to die once again. He remembers the attempts to keep the exhaustion at bay, to keep fighting for as long as his body would allow. He remembers the soaring of his heart at the roar of her dragons, at the realisation that she had come.  _ She had come for him _ . He remembers reaching for her, her hand so close, the peril seemingly melting away, before remembering where they were, and forcing himself to do what he must and clear the path for everyone else. All of that quickly overtaken by anger and devastation when Viserion is felled by the hand of the Night King. He remembers the humming silence, feeling Daenery’s dazed heartbreak, the blood singing in his veins. He remembers shouting for her to leave, running toward her before she took flight. He remembers the ice cold water seeping then soaking into his furs, encasing and trapping him.  _ He remembers the ice trying to claim him _ . 

 

He remembers his refusal to die like that, drowning and clawing for breath. He remembers the coldness in his bones as he awaited his final fight, the sight of a horse and flame enough for him to question his sanity.  _ Had the chill taken his mind? _ His realisation that it is Uncle Benjen brings elation, before it is quickly stamped out at his refusal to join him. 

 

He remembers waking on the boat, the haziness before focusing on Daenerys, the first true thing he can recall seeing. He remembers the distress overcoming him at the sight of her sat at his bedside, the overwhelming need to comfort, the feel of her hand in his. He remembers the pressure of her grasp, the tears filling her eyes; the way she forces the words to pass her throat. He recalls the guilt scraping his insides raw. He remembers wondering when exactly she became  _ Dany _ ; when exactly, she became  _ My Queen _ . 

 

He remembers the wonder in her eyes, the disbelief etched on her face.  _ He remembers wondering when he started to miss the feel of her hand in his.  _

 

He remembers marvelling at just how blind he had been; how he had allowed himself to wallow in denial. He remembers pondering what might have happened had Daenerys not pulled her hand away.  _ A dangerous path to go down _ he chides himself. He remembers thinking about her kind and good heart, and just precisely when his admiration and respect had grown beyond into the realm of love.

 

He remembers the journey back to Dragonstone, the ache in his body from more than just his frolic beneath the ice. He remembers watching Daenerys from afar, afraid almost to approach her after what had transpired when he had first woke. He remembers trying to meet her gaze, a stab of hurt at the way her eyes seemingly avoided his. 

 

He remembers the consuming reverence with which he watched her enter the Dragon Pit, the way with which held herself. How she did not allow herself to be cowed by the hostile setting. He recalls thinking about her speech to him when they first met, and how it would take more than a disgruntled and unbelieving queen to have Daenerys Targaryen quaking where she stood. 

 

He remembers the bile rising in his throat at the realisation of what he was about to do.  _ I cannot serve two queens.  _ He remembers the anger and disbelief rolling off Davos and Tyrion, the incredulity razor sharp from Dany. 

 

He remembers wanting to hear her speak more Valyrian, to lose himself in the way her mouth contorted and how her tongue wrapped around the unfamiliar sounds.  _ How it might sound being exerted in a more strenuous situation.  _

 

He remembers scoffing at her assertion that she was not extraordinary; that she would somehow be the last of her family. He remembers dismissing her declaration of being unable to have children.  _ The witch who murdered my husband _ . He remembers wanting to tell her that it would never matter to him, that she was what he wanted, whatever she would give him.  _ He remembers wondering when people started to take the word of so-called witches as infallible truth _ . 

 

He remembers the anticipation crawling under his skin at her declaration,  _ we sail together _ . They had come to an understanding, a silent exchange even he could decipher.

 

He remembers the nerves, the anxiety kicking his gut, making him question if he had misinterpreted the entire history of their interactions. He was disbelieving, that this incredible woman could even want him,  _ that she should want him _ . What had he possibly done to deserve even an iota of her attention? He remembers pinching himself, hard, to make sure that this was real, and that he had not at some point passed over into an afterlife he knew did not exist. 

 

He remembers standing in front of her door, his courage flailing in his chest, the fear of rejection a strong taste on his tongue. A deep breath finds his bravery, both hands clenching as he knocks on her ornate door. His nails dig into his palms as he waits. An eternity seems to pass, and then he hears the tap of the latch. The door swings open and her eyes do not immediately meet his. They snap up, and he can see the assuredness overcome her, mirroring his own acceptance. 

 

He remembers knowing that once he stepped over the threshold, there would be no going back. He remembers not caring, of allowing himself to want,  _ want her, want them together _ , everything else be damned. He remembers knowing in his very bones that they had been building to this point, slowly, but surely, and he could all but reach out to the crescendo, could feel it in the leaping knots of his stomach, the stutter of his heart. 

 

He remembers thinking of the oncoming dark days, and how if this night was all they had, he would take it with both hands and hold it tight. He would allow it to warm him and soak his body during the frigid cold; the memory of the touch and taste of her. 

 

He remembers when it hit him, truly, and he was able to latch onto the feeling and force his head to listen to his heart.  _ He loved her, and she loved him.  _ It was the only push he needed, all other voices, dissenting and otherwise, silent. He remembers the stillness overcoming him, the mere thought of the love he held for Daenerys enough to invoke a peace he did not know existed. Her eyes lock on his and he sees the same emotions reflecting back, and Jon silently promises that he will not allow that spark to dull from her eyes. Daenerys Targaryen deserves everything she has ever wanted, and Jon vows he will spend the entirety of this lifetime and the next hundred ensuring she gets it, whatever it may be. 

 

He remembers stepping through the door, then turning to close it. The sound of the latch locking into place, and Jon knows, in this moment, that being with Daenerys is the calm and peace he craves, and that he will do everything in his power to be the same for her. He accepts that this woman has him heart, body and soul. He knows that he will fully embrace this chance that fate has been determined to serve him. He remembers that Daenerys is his, just as he is hers, and he vows then to never let go. And he remembers, as Daenerys sleeps in his arms, the look that had passed between them, the reverence with which they held the other’s gaze; their love no longer hidden.  _ He will always remember. _

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did another moodboard. Is it because I'm extra? Find fault in everything I do? Got annoyed with the one I posted on tumblr and redid it? All of the above?
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this, I really appreciate it. ❤ Let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm through-my-shadow :)


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